


i know where the keys are (but i don't think i'll stay)

by whosmorales



Series: bring me down, cut me loose (i still can't quite get over you) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cheating, Ex Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Angst, Non-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Break Up, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whosmorales/pseuds/whosmorales
Summary: He’s shaking. His breath is too heavy, chest going up and down with it as he stares up at Bucky with those big blue eyes, stormy and wild and fierce. His blonde hair is soaking wet, looks darker than it actually is, some of it stuck to his forehead and some, sticking out in weird directions. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are a bright shade of red and his lips are discolored, shiny with rain water, a bloody cut going through his bottom lip.He has a baggy bomber jacket hanging from his narrow shoulders, completely drenched, dripping onto Bucky’s welcome carpet, and doing a visibly piss poor job of keeping him warm. Bucky notices a nasty bruise forming on one of his cheeks, black and blue and almost spiteful, and he has to physically stop himself from staring at it. Both of them swallow hard and dry. Bucky feels himself tensing up and holding his breath. He stares, probably for way too long, feels dizzy and dazed. He manages to muster enough strength and resolve to take a deep, broken breath. He opens his mouth and tries to say something, but the only thing that seems to come out is a soft and quiet:“Steve."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Male Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: bring me down, cut me loose (i still can't quite get over you) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022533
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	i know where the keys are (but i don't think i'll stay)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queerghostie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerghostie/gifts).



> hello, everyone!
> 
> this is something i've been working for a couple of months. i've been writing and rewriting since july(?), i think, so i put a lot of effort and thought into it. it's my first real fic, not only in this fandom, but also as a whole, so i'm kind of nervous. but i really hope you guys like it. i hope i do right by this fandom and can deliver the good content it deserves.
> 
> this wouldn't have been possible without the help of [queerghostie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerghostie/pseuds/queerghostie), who's probably the biggest supporter of my writing and a wonderful friend. another great, indispensable contributor to this fic was [Theboys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys), who did a wonderful job as my beta reader/editor and helped me shape this fic into something readable. thanks to both of you!
> 
> i'm not a native english speaker, so please forgive me if i let any mistakes or awkward sentences slip through.
> 
> title taken from [good times by matt duncan](https://open.spotify.com/track/397rM4wePe8bPJSMAwFNUO?si=k2BWh_f0RYGEtqqWtjoDPg)
> 
> anyways, enjoy :)

Once he’s done cutting up a couple of carrots into tiny cubes, Bucky picks up the chopping board and walks back to his stove. He mentally scolds himself for taking too long to add them, which he does so clumsily that he manages to splash some droplets of boiling tomato sauce on himself.

He doesn’t know exactly _why_ he let Thom talk him into whatever this suburban wine mom thing they’re doing even is, but he can’t help but feel some sense of pride over the way his recipe is turning out. It smells good and it looks pretty decent, so he puts some effort into trying not to get too self-conscious about the fact that he barely even knows what he’s doing. Bucky takes the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir the sauce and taps it into his palm. He brings his hand up to his mouth, licking at the sauce with a satisfied hum at the taste.

He’s in his kitchen, the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled up until his elbows and a kitchen apron tied sloppily around his waist, nostrils full of earthy, rich smells. His messy hair, although much shorter than it used to be, still sporadically falls onto his face, which he always fixes by using his fingers to put it back where it belongs. He turned on the T.V as soon as he got home, probably planning on watching something as he handled his recipe, but since he can’t be bothered to pay attention to it, he just allows himself to tune out the sounds until they’re nothing but a soft, comforting hum.

The night outside is chilly at best and absolutely freezing, at worst, which is why he made sure to turn on his thermostat, even though his considerably sized apartment does a very good job of keeping out the cold. The day started out grey and icy when he got out of bed and only got progressively colder with each passing hour - so much so that by the time Bucky ended his shift and hopped into his cab, his breath condensed into the air and the tips of his fingers were ice cold.

His day at work was full of boiling hot coffee cups, a couple of arguments regarding the office’s thermostat and nodding along as his coworkers attempted to make conversation out of the weather. But the best thing about the sudden shift in temperature was, by far, the fact that Thom brought warm cups of tea to his desk, and huddled a little bit closer to him whenever they needed to go over something together. Their hands touched for longer than they should have whenever Thom would hand him the drinks, but they’re used to making these small interactions look more casual than they actually are. It made Bucky feel safe and good about himself.

The rain, which only started out as light, harmless, drizzle around the time Bucky got home, now insistently taps on his windows, almost demanding his attention, making him worry a little bit about what that could mean for him in the very near future, given the fact that he has about an hour to finish everything up and leave, and the prospect of having to deal with hail doesn’t sound too attractive.

The sounds of heavy traffic below his window don’t really lift up his spirits either, horns and loud chatter and wheels barely moving on the wet pavement, but he tries as best as he can to remain optimistic. That’s not a particularly difficult task, if he focuses really hard on the prospect of being with Thom for a whole night.

Once he’s done with his recipe, Bucky finishes up by setting everything into glass containers and noting to himself that he’ll decide on presentation once he’s at Thom’s. He picks up an expensive bottle of wine from one of his shelves and takes a hard, disapproving look at it, before settling it on his counter, along with his phone (which he always seems to leave at home), car keys, and a pack of cigarettes for later that night (which he can’t convince himself not to take, even though he knows Thom absolutely hates it when he smokes).

As he’s getting ready to hop into the shower, he hears his doorbell ring. It’s short and hurried, almost like it was accidental, so he waits for a moment, just to be sure. It rings again, for a longer time now, so he walks towards the door, partially annoyed but mostly intrigued, almost hoping it’s Thom coming to pick him up so he doesn’t have to drive. Bucky turns his keys, already hanging from the lock, and twists the doorknob. He opens the door and his mouth to say “hi”, but stops himself as soon as his eyes meet his visitor’s.

He’s shaking. His breath is too heavy, chest going up and down with it as he stares up at Bucky with those big blue eyes, stormy and wild and fierce. His blonde hair is soaking wet, looks darker than it actually is, some of it stuck to his forehead and some, sticking out in weird directions. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are a bright shade of red and his lips are discolored, shiny with rain water, a bloody cut going through his bottom lip.

He has a baggy bomber jacket hanging from his narrow shoulders, completely drenched, dripping onto Bucky’s welcome carpet, and doing a visibly piss poor job of keeping him warm. Bucky notices a nasty bruise forming on one of his cheeks, black and blue and almost spiteful, and he has to physically stop himself from staring at it. Both of them swallow hard and dry. Bucky feels himself tensing up and holding his breath. He stares, probably for way too long, feels dizzy and dazed. He manages to muster enough strength and resolve to take a deep, broken breath. He opens his mouth and tries to say something, but the only thing that seems to come out is a soft and quiet:

“Steve."

And before he can think of anything else, Steve pulls him by the collar of his shirt and swallows him up in a hungry, impatient kiss. 

And although Bucky _knows_ , understands deep within his bones and with every fiber in his body, that he shouldn’t, he still leans into it, desperately, absolutely ill with the feeling. He wraps his arms around Steve’s much smaller frame almost instinctively, and presses their bodies together, too lost to pay any mind to the way Steve’s damp clothes soak through his own.

Steve tastes like blood and rain and _home_. His lips and nose are freezing cold, and so are the wet fingertips touching Bucky’s cheeks and neck, as he attempts to get closer, to feel _more_. And even though something in Bucky tells him that he shouldn’t like it nearly as much as he does, it’s all so uniquely _Steve_ that he has no choice other than to get completely absorbed in it, as he feels something hungry and needy growing, _aching_ in his chest and inundating his body, his veins, every single one of his muscles. 

Steve pushes him inside, closing the door behind him with a quick kick, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Bucky deepens the kiss like it’d kill him not to. He turns it messy and wild, definitely not pretty but still very distinctly _theirs_ , kissing each other as if it’s the only thing they’ve ever wanted.

Steve effortlessly leads Bucky towards one of the couches in the living room, almost like he knows how completely disarming his presence – his _kiss_ – is for Bucky, and pushes him onto the couch, climbing onto his lap, moving so beautifully and ferociously that Bucky can’t help but feel like he’s about to combust, overwhelmed not only by Steve’s lips on his, but by the drive with which he does anything and everything.

Steve, as eager as always, moves his lips to Bucky’s neck, bites way too hard, and then licks over it. Bucky rolls his eyes, lets out a shaky, throaty moan, tangles one of his hands into his wet hair, and pulls on it, lets his other hand wander down, caressing and stroking and grabbing at whatever he can find.

Steve kisses him once again, just as angry and filthy and _hot_ , before removing his own jacket and carelessly throwing it somewhere on the living room floor. And Bucky has nothing but a split second to admire the way Steve’s dark long-sleeved shirt sticks to his chest, contrasts with the paleness of his skin, before Steve is all over him again, one hand painfully gripping his shoulder and the other cupping one of his cheeks, as he grinds down onto Bucky’s thigh and moans softly into his mouth.

And Bucky lets himself wonder, for a moment. Asks himself how he could possibly have gone as long as he did without this, without Steve’s weight on top of him. Without Steve’s taste in his mouth and his hands on his skin.

So he holds onto that feeling. Keeps it with him, like it’s too precious to let go of, like it’ll be gone as soon as he opens his eyes.

Steve’s hands fly to the buttons of Bucky’s shirt and, fuck, Bucky almost passes out from anticipation. He throws his head back with a deep sigh and lets himself enjoy the way Steve’s cold fingertips contrast with the warmth of his own chest. Steve’s lips touch Bucky’s neck once more, biting and sucking, leaving marks that Bucky hopes will last, as Steve’s hands touch his chest, exploring and mapping it out, relearning its shape. Bucky feels his body tingle, almost tremble, groaning and grinding his hips up into Steve’s, head spinning from how much he _wants_ him. Once Bucky’s shirt is fully unbuttoned, he takes it off and discards it without much of a thought, before both of them reach for the hem of Steve’s shirt and remove it like it would hurt Steve to have it on for much longer. 

Once he feels Steve’s hands going for his belt, though, Bucky breaks the kiss and sets one of his hands on Steve’s chest, breathing heavily. Steve furrows his eyebrows, pink lips slightly agape, chest heaving.

“What?" Steve asks, looking frustrated, but with a hint of apprehension in his deep, rumbly voice. Bucky swallows down and wets his lips with his tongue.

“Are you sure?" Bucky’s eyes fall to the freckles on the bridge of Steve’s nose, cascading down his cheeks. "About this, I mean."

Steve rolls his eyes at that, the same way he always did, and pushes Bucky’s hand off his chest, before going in for another kiss, as heated and impatient as ever. And he licks into Bucky’s mouth, uses one of his hands to stroke his dick over his pants as the other caresses his forearms and raises goosebumps on his skin. Bucky’s not the type to be told twice, especially when it comes to Steve, so he just enjoys the feeling of Steve touching him, rolls his hips into it and moans quietly when Steve bites his bottom lip. 

“Bed," Bucky says, breathlessly, and Steve tries to get up as soon as he hears it. Bucky stops him, however, by pulling him back to the kiss and wrapping his arms around Steve’s legs. "Hold on." Is the only thing he says before getting up, feeling Steve wrap his legs around his waist and moan into his mouth, deliciously. He rakes his blunt nails across the dark hair on Bucky’s chest, like he wants to tear him up into little bits. And Bucky’s sure that Steve could, if he really wanted to, that he would turn him into a wreck.

As he stumbles into his bedroom, Bucky falls into his bed with Steve under him, and goes to undo his pants, with a new-found sense of urgency. Steve helps him by kicking them off along with his underwear, and Bucky sends them flying away without giving it much thought, eyes now glued to Steve’s fully naked body, a sight he missed so deeply, so hungrily.

His fingertips trace the fresh, dark bruises on Steve’s skin, the freckles on his shoulders, nothing short of adoring. He runs his hands through Steve’s collarbones, his prominent ribs, the discolored scar going through his chest, the blond hair on his navel, his hip bones, the pink head of his cock. And Bucky feels like he needs a moment to take it all in, to appreciate it and worship it and memorize it completely.

But Steve never gives him what he wants, not that easily. He starts working on undressing Bucky, looking almost desperate, and there’s no way Bucky could ever say no to Steve when he looks that hungry for it. His hands are warmer now, and his thin, long fingers undo Bucky’s pants with agility, as he goes in for a wet, messy kiss, that’s mostly tongue and teeth and moaning. Bucky melts into, like he always does, sets both of his hands next to each side of Steve’s head.

Steve uses his legs to get Bucky’s pants out of the way, pushes them down with his feet, already grinding up into Bucky’s cock and attempting to pull him even closer. He needs it, needs Steve, _his_ Steve so fucking much, so badly, it’s almost embarrassing. He’s already so hard, so gone. And he knows Steve wants him as well, from the way he pulls him down by his neck and touches his skin and scratches his back, demanding everything from him. It’s too overwhelming not to comply.

“Get the lube." Steve breaks the kiss to say, basically command, in a way that makes it impossible for Bucky not to obey. He disentangles himself from Steve, gets up hurriedly, and reaches for the drawer right next to his bed.

“Condoms?" He asks, a moment away from feeling shy, breathless, bottle of lube already in his hand.

“No." Steve’s voice is rough, raspy. And Bucky just nods, not really thinking it through, feels his breath hitch and has to physically stop himself from keening at the thought of Steve fucking him raw. He walks back to the bed and gets on top of Steve, catching his lips in a messy kiss. 

“How do you want me?" He asks, a little out of breath.

“Inside me." Is Steve’s response, soft and quiet, almost like it’s a secret. And it catches Bucky by surprise, but doesn’t stop his mouth from watering and his cock from twitching.

“I want you to fuck me, Buck." Steve reassures in a whisper, and pulls Bucky into a kiss, unlike any of the kisses he's pulled him into. A slowly, lazy thing, much softer and sweeter than it had any right to be. Steve, rocking his hips against Bucky’s, hands tangled in his hair. Bucky, moaning softly against his lips, forehead pressed against his. The friction of their cocks sliding together, a bit dry but so, so warm and good and unbelievably real. The way they breathe heavily into each other’s mouths, the way Steve pulls him closer and closer and holds onto Bucky with bruising force, like he doesn’t want him to get away, like Bucky could ever dream of getting away. He wants every bit of it, every second, up until the very end, when Steve breaks the kiss, and stares into his eyes. 

“You cut your hair," He sounds amused and thoughtful, and then takes a strand and curls it around one of his fingers, like he used to do all the time. And Bucky smiles at that, as Steve runs his fingers through his hair, softly, attempting to tuck bits of it behind Bucky’s ears, but failing, because of its length. Steve looks at him like he hadn’t noticed before, and is just now finding out.

“It’s so short." He says, finally, still playing with his hair as if he’s trying to assess just how short it is. Bucky nods and kisses his neck.

“D’you like it?" Bucky whispers against his skin and licks over it, languidly. Steve sighs and rolls his hips.

“Yeah." He nods, and Bucky’s stomach flips at that, at the slightest hint of approval from Steve. And he resents himself for that, only a little bit, as he slides down onto the floor, between Steve’s legs, kissing every bit of soft skin along the way. “It suits you." Steve smiles, looking shy in what probably is the first time of his life. Bucky smiles back at him, content with himself, kissing Steve’s thigh and setting one hand at the base of his dick.

“Can you hold your legs for me, please?" Bucky asks, pumping Steve lightly. Steve moans softly and does as he was asked, pulls his legs up and holds them in place, revealing a pink little hole sitting between his cheeks. Bucky bites his lips and has to physically stop himself from fucking Steve right then and there.

So he just licks over it, slowly and deliberately, loving the way it tastes and the way Steve’s breath hitches. Bucky strokes Steve’s cock, red at the head, as he licks into Steve’s ass once again, and feels him buck his hips and let out an honest-to-God whine. 

And Bucky gets lost in the warm feeling that rises in the pit of his stomach, so he sets out to do it once more, and then again and again and again, lapping at the pretty pink of Steve’s ass and sucking on it as his hand jerks his cock like it was made for that purpose and that purpose only. Steve tastes wonderful to him, and the musky scent of him is even better, makes Bucky want to drown in it, drink it all up. And he allows himself to feel proud of the way Steve’s skin is not as cold as it initially was.

He listens closely to the sound of Steve’s breath getting heavier with each passing second, putting all of his energy into eating Steve out like it’s the only thing he needs to live. Steve lets out these wonderful sounds, sometimes deep and rumbly, sometimes soft and high-pitched, and he grinds down onto Bucky’s tongue and bucks his hips up, chasing the friction of his hand. He rocks his hips into Bucky’s eager mouth, as Bucky makes a mess of his ass, spitting on it before sucking it into his mouth and scratching his nails against the soft hairs on Steve’s thighs. Steve lets out a gravelly moan, back arching and body shaking. And he looks so fucking beautiful like this, hands holding his legs up to his chest, displaying himself so openly for Bucky, toes curling because of how good it feels.

“Buck, wait, stop." He says, voice sounding strained. “Hold on, _fuck_." And Bucky does, looks up at Steve, uses the back of his hand to clean his chin, and questions whether or not he imagines the way Steve’s breath hitches when he sees him like that.

“Yeah?" He asks, one of his hands still on Steve’s thigh, feeling the way he’s shaking.

“Just…" Steve swallows hard. “hurry up and fuck me. Start with two fingers." Bucky raises an eyebrow at that, wants to question it, because he knows how Steve has zero regard for his body’s limits when he’s like this. But as if Steve can sense the doubt and apprehension in Bucky's mind, he reassures him. 

“Just do it.”

In a way that leaves absolutely no room for discussion, almost an order. So Bucky just nods, gets the bottle of lube and pops open the cap. He squeezes some of it onto two of his fingers and takes them to Steve’s ass, already loose and wet, and then slowly but surely pushes them in, reveling in the way Steve hisses and gasps at the feeling, biting his lips and throwing his head back. And, at first, Bucky allows himself to just stay like that, for a moment, slowly working his fingers in and out of Steve. He feels good about himself, good for Steve. Just okay, with everything. And he feels like he should reprimand himself for feeling that way, for liking it as much as he does, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

He adds another finger and picks up his pace, fucking deep into Steve with just his fingers at first, but then adding his tongue, licking into him like it’s the most delicious fucking thing he’s ever tasted. And Steve fucking loves it, uses one of his hands to tangle his fingers into Bucky’s hair and roll his hips against his face, as his moans turn louder and his chest starts going up and down with each breath. He rolls his eyes and props himself up on his elbows, looks down at Bucky and moans something that sounds like Bucky’s name.

Steve’s cheeks are blushing, though the bruise on one of them covers the red with its own sickly colors, and the blue of his eyes looks darker now. His dirty blond hair is messy and his full, plump lips are bruised, red with blood and shiny with spit. And Bucky has no idea of how he doesn’t come right then and there, just by looking at Steve, before moving his fingers around to find that one spot inside of him that always made him cry out in pure ecstasy. And once he finds it, Steve does just that, arches his back and gasps sharply. Bucky presses into it with his fingers while sucking on him with his mouth, and Steve looks like he’s about to fucking die.

“Fuck!" The hand on Bucky’s hair tightens its grip as Steve rides it out, pushes his ass into Bucky’s mouth and fingers, shaking with pleasure.

Bucky can’t help but smile for a moment. He’s always loved getting Steve to drop all pretenses and just enjoy himself. Loves doing it now, loved doing it then.

“A-ah, _fuck_! Buck…" He sobs. “Stop, stop, I’m ready." He breathes out and visibly relaxes when Bucky stops moving and takes his tongue and fingers out of his ass. “Shit, I’m ready. Fuck me.”

Bucky immediately gets up, doesn’t need to be encouraged any further. Steve rolls around to lay on his stomach, spreads his legs and props himself up on all fours, still shaking some. Bucky wastes no time positioning himself between his legs, coating his cock with a thick layer of lube and jerking himself off, so glad to relieve some of the pressure he feels. He’s been rock hard for so long, and didn’t even think of touching himself. But now, staring at Steve’s freckled back, his ass and the round shape of it, he takes his time with himself, breathes deeply and sets one of his hands at the base of Steve’s back.

Bucky waits for a moment, half teasing and half admiring, pushing the tip of his dick against Steve’s beautiful ass, so wet and loose for him, _because_ of him.

“C’mon, Buck." Steve whispers at him, and Bucky needs to do as he’s told, needs to be good for Steve. And as he pushes his cock into Steve, as slowly, and as gently as he possibly can, he feels his heart pounding faster, his throat gasping for air. He’s left with no other option but to roll his eyes and _whimper_.

Steve is _tight_ , warm and welcoming and everything on earth. He moans at the feeling of being full and rolls his hips, deliciously, almost sinfully. And though Bucky likes to believe that he’s a gentleman, he just can’t help but bury his cock deep into Steve’s beautiful, tight little ass, until their bodies are flush against each other’s and their thoughts feel drowned by the pleasure. Bucky’s missed this, so much. 

His grip on Steve’s hips is bruisingly tight, and his nails dig crescent moon shaped marks into his skin. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut and he gasps, moans, not only at how good it feels, but because it’s _Steve_. Because the feeling of having Steve shaking and moaning underneath him - all that soft skin, and that deep, rich voice, and all of his impatience and impulsiveness, every single thing that comes with him - is intoxicating to Bucky, turns him mad and eager and it dumbs him down until he can’t think of anything that isn’t the way Steve feels around him.

“Steve…" Is once again the only thing he finds himself able to say. His voice is strained, sounds rough to his ears, and he starts getting angry at himself for already sounding and being as wrecked and as ruined as he is. Bucky waits for a couple of moments, takes in a deep breath and swallows hard and dry, in an attempt to recompose and reorganize his thoughts, all clouded with Steve and pleasure and a very familiar, dangerous type of relief. He licks his lips and sighs heavily, almost resenting Steve for the way he refuses to say still under him.

“ _Shit_ …" He breathes out, moves his hips to fuck himself on Bucky’s cock. “ _Buck_ …" Steve drags in a deep breath, looks like he’s having a hard time forming complete sentences without falling apart, hands fisting the sheets like they’re his lifeline. Bucky moans quietly. He could build monuments in honor of Steve’s body, the way he moves and moans and looks. "Bucky... " Steve calls out, looks back at him for a moment, all red cheeks and parted lips. He moves his hips once more, groans when Bucky’s cock moves inside him. “Fuck, Bucky… baby, c’mon, _move_." And maybe it’s the pet name, maybe it’s the tone of desperation in Steve’s voice, but Bucky really doesn’t need, doesn’t want to be told twice.

He moves back, feeling the drag his cock inside of Steve, drowning in the sensation, and then pushes his cock into him, going as deep as he can. He rolls his hips, nice and slow every time, and lets them crash onto Steve like ocean waves, wrapping his arms around Steve’s torso and draping himself onto Steve to kiss and bite into his shoulder blades. Steve’s breath hitches, and he lets his head hang back and he lets out a long, relieved moan. He’s more relaxed now, rocking back into Bucky’s thrusts and jerking himself off in tandem with Bucky’s movements.

They make that last. They whisper reassurances to each other - “ _you’re so good, Buck, oh, God_ " - and take their sweet time, moaning sweetly and softly and kissing and biting into each other’s skin like they can’t get enough of it. Steve, rolling his hips to meet Bucky’s thrusts, sloppily kissing the back of his hand, and Bucky running his hands through Steve’s back and thighs, letting his fingers graze over his nipples and feeling him shudder from it.

“Jesus, you’ll end up fucking killing me!" Steve says, between breaths, pushing his hips up as if Bucky could possibly be even deeper inside him. Bucky somehow manages to flash a small smile against his skin, and kisses his neck with the tenderness he’d use to touch a flower petal.

“Why’s that?" His voice cracks, as he tries his very best not to turn his sentence into a moan, still moving inside of Steve and feeling him clench his ass around him. Steve makes a frustrated sound.

“Jesus Christ, you fucking, _oh_ …" He takes a moment to recollect himself, takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “y-you _know_ why, jackass." At that, Bucky snaps his hips forward. Hard and angry and mean, but just once, because he _is_ a jackass and he couldn’t forgive himself if he allowed Steve to forget but he’s also a nice fucking guy, and Steve isn’t allowed to forget that either. Steve gasps and then moans deliciously. 

“Ah, _shit!_ " He chokes out, clenching down on Bucky’s cock and making him see stars. “Bucky!" It’s almost like he’s being scolded. “ _Fuck_ …”

“You like that, huh?" Bucky smiles, breathes out a stupid laugh, unable to properly focus on anything that isn’t Steve and the way he tightens even more around him.

“Just do it again." The response comes out hurried, almost desperate, breathless. And when Bucky obeys, snapping forward a lot harder than he initially intended to, he hears Steve gasp, loud, like he’s genuinely surprised, and then let out the most beautiful sounds Bucky’s heard, so raspy and needy and _hot_. It’s fucking inebriating. 

A wave of shock courses through his body, his _veins_ \- it makes him shiver and bite into Steve’s neck, like he’s suddenly found the urge to eat him alive. It’s too much, too powerful to say no to.

So he picks up his pace, gradually. Moves a little bit faster, smacks his hips against Steve’s a little bit harder each time. And the slap of his balls against Steve’s ass sounds a little too good to him. His hips snap forward and he keeps going and going and going, until he’s pushing his cock into Steve like he fucking hates him, pounding into his ass with such strength and carelessness that he could pierce another hole into his body. He moves like a tidal wave, chaotic and furious and untamed, feels every single muscle in his body tense up and tingle and vibrate. It’s so wet, so warm, so good he could die from it. Thinks he will, if it ever stops.

And Steve – Steve fucking loves it, like he always has. His moans are loud as he fucks back onto Bucky and jerks himself off. It kills Bucky to see Steve like this, like a bullet to the chest. The image of Steve on all fours, shaking his tight little butt for him, all desperate, hissing when Bucky’s cock hits that sweet fucking spot inside of him "it makes Bucky lose his grasp on reality. It’s all Steve, Steve, Steve, surrounding him, consuming him, until he’s nothing but a fucking wreck for him, because of him. And they grab at each other, kiss clumsily, say fragments of clouded thoughts - “ _Jesus, fuck, you’re so good, you’re so hot_ " - out loud in an attempt to communicate to each other how good, how right this feels. It’s the closest Bucky’s ever been to heaven.

He leaves a bite into Steve’s shoulder so hard it leaves a red mark, as if he’s trying to take a piece out of him, but all Steve does is hiss and roll his hips. And he takes Bucky’s hand in his own, like he needs something to ground himself with, to stop him from floating away - and Bucky doesn’t stop him. He never would. And when he uses his free hand to stroke Steve’s cock, twisting his wrist and stopping to play with the head, Steve sobs - fucks into his hand and moves back to fuck himself with Bucky’s cock, greedy as always, taking everything he can get.

It starts to feel overwhelming to Bucky.

Steve, gasping, sighing, groaning under him. The bed, creaking with their weight and movements. The sheets rustling underneath them. His own breath, deep and hitching when Steve rolls his hips. Bucky makes sure to take everything in - the images, the sounds, the tastes, every sensation. He pays close attention to the way Steve looks back at him, looks at him with darkened blue eyes and sees right through him, desires him, and then throws his head back once again, like looking and seeing Bucky is physically exhausting to him. But Bucky can’t complain, can’t really blame him, because the red tint of Steve’s cheeks, the taste of his skin, the sound of his voice - it’s all as draining as it is invigorating. 

At some point, Steve doesn’t even have the strength to hold himself up properly. He lies on the bed, ass up, head buried in the mattress, arms shaking and hands grasping at the sheets like he’s holding onto them to save himself from falling. His moans are muffled and high pitched, a little louder, and it really feels like Bucky’s hands are the only thing keeping him from evaporating into the air. His breath is heavy, labored even, and he whispers things Bucky can’t quite make out, but likes nonetheless, still ramming into Steve - hard and fast and mean, grunting at the effort. He slows down, for a moment, looking for new angles, for new ways to take Steve apart. And once Steve responds with a cry or a shout, Bucky gives it to him good, nails that spot, bites into his earlobe and moans softly against his skin, until his mind is foggy and Steve is a babbling mess.

Steve slips away, bit by bit. He moans slurred words, sighs contently, breathes heavily. And when he comes, after progressively sharper gasps and a staccato of whines and moans, his toes curl, and he pulls on the sheets like he wants to tear them down to bits. He moves his hips with more vigor, as if Bucky could go any deeper, any faster, as he fucks him through it, hand milking his cock and body draped over his. He arches his back, pushes himself against Bucky, throws his head back and it’s so fucking beautiful. It could bring Bucky to tears, how beautiful Steve looks in that fraction of a moment, his whole body being pushed forward by Bucky’s hips slapping onto his.

Bucky comes inside Steve, because Steve tells him to. He moans words that he doesn’t really recognize, thoughts he hasn’t properly processed yet, and just nods, takes Bucky’s hand into his and sloppily kisses his knuckles, encouraging, asking for more. At the height of it, Bucky pushes his cock into him, slow but hard, probably bruising the both of them with the force of it.

Bucky expected it to feel like fireworks. Explosive and loud and roaring. But it’s much quieter than that. It’s like an ocean wave. Slow and unwavering. It pulls him away from himself and then drags him back to his own body. It feels destructive, inescapable, absolutely disarming. It’s way too big and powerful to fully overcome. He lets out a deep sigh, bites his lips hard enough to bruise them. It’s so good. It’s so good he could die.

When Steve is wincing and hissing from overstimulation, Bucky disentangles himself from him and lets his body hit the mattress, next to Steve. He closes his eyes and lets out a deep, long sigh. His skin is sweaty from the effort and his chest is going up and down, slowly but deeply. As he tries to regain his breath and will away goosebumps on his skin, he starts to feel exhausted. It’s too much to think about, to process; so he decides that he won’t, that he doesn’t have to, at least not now. It’s not the time. So Bucky just swallows hard and enjoys the weight and warmth of Steve’s body next to his. He reaches out to touch him with his hand, grazing his knuckles across the skin of his back, and Steve doesn’t stop him.

So he breathes in and out, and takes everything in. Steve’s smell, the way his skin feels under his touch, the sound of his breath. It feels like it used to, and that’s more than enough for him. It feels safe, and okay. He could live with it.

“Hey, Buck." He hears Steve call out in a soft voice. And for some reason, maybe because he’s a little bit of an asshole, he doesn’t say anything back at first. Just moves his hand, lazily, strokes the small of Steve’s back with his thumb. 

“Buck.”

“Mm, yeah?" He finally responds, mindlessly, voice sounding rough to his own ears. “What’s up?”

“I, uh… I bled on your sheets." At that, Bucky’s eyes snap open and he sits up in surprise. He looks over at Steve and feels his stomach turn at the sight. He’s lying on his stomach, one of his hands cupped right below his nose, catching tiny little droplets of blood dripping from it in a dark, sickly shade of red. Right next to him sit a couple of small blood droplets, staining Bucky’s sheets.

“Did I do that?" He asks, dumbly. Steve shakes his head.

“It had stopped." He sniffs and grimaces. “I must have bumped it somewhere." Bucky nods and swallows hard.

“I’ll just…" He clears his throat. “I’ll grab you a towel." His eyes flick to the bruise on Steve’s cheek, darker and angrier now and he immediately regrets doing so. “And a pack of ice.”

“Cool.”

¨¨

Bucky’s in his kitchen, preparing coffee for the two of them. He moves methodically, almost on autopilot, feeding the pods to his coffee machine and placing the mugs on the cupholder. He’s done in about five minutes.

When Steve hopped out of the shower, a quick, five-minute thing, mostly to wash away the sweat and the cum and the dirty rain water, after a couple of minutes of trying to get his nosebleed to stop, Bucky offered him a pile of dry, clean clothes, which he hesitantly took. When his clothes were in the dryer and he was finally dressed in something that wasn’t completely drenched, they just stared at each other, for a moment. Took each other in, incredulous, not really sure of what to say and how to react. Steve looked unsure and Bucky was staring at him, feeling way too much. Bucky was the one to break the silence, by sighing and offering “ _Coffee?_ ”. And his voice sounded too shy to his ears, apprehensive. But Steve either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because his lips quirked up in a small smile. He nodded and they ended up in Bucky's kitchen.

He looks at Steve - sat on the counter, dangling his legs with a pack of frozen peas pressed to his cheek as he mindlessly chews on his split bottom lip - from the corner of his eye, as he tidies up a bit. Bucky’s shirt’s huge on him, slips from one shoulder to another, barely covers his collarbone. And Bucky would’ve liked it, some time ago, to be able to see the marks he’s left on Steve’s skin so clearly. But right now, the only thing he can really look at are the bruises Steve got elsewhere, the cut on his lip. So he averts his gaze and focuses on the coffee he’s already done making, messes with the cups a little bit before handing one of them to Steve.

“Here." He says, as Steve sets the frozen peas on the counter and reaches for it. They drink from their respective mugs in silence, Bucky taking sips from his _latte_ and Steve making small sounds of approval at the taste of his _macchiato_. They stay like that, for a couple of minutes. Drinking coffee with each other, with Steve not meeting Bucky’s gaze as he allows himself to watch him for more than just a split second. And Steve looks comfortable. A little too serious, maybe a bit tired, but comfortable. Like this is just what they do, every Friday night.

“You’re staring." Steve says, voice unwavering, without looking up at him. Bucky averts his eyes and clears his throat.

“Sorry." Is his reply, even though he doesn’t feel or sound sorry. “It’s just… it’s not every day that you come by for a cup of coffee." And Steve breathes out a laugh, a tiny, huffed out little thing, but that’s more than enough to make Bucky’s chest _ache_. He just swallows hard and tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about the fact that he’s close enough to Steve to touch him, if he wanted to. That Steve’s right there, in his kitchen, drinking coffee from one of his mugs, wearing his clothes, covered in hickeys that he’s left on his skin. It’s hard not to.

But Bucky’s good enough at it, so he just takes another sip from his mug and plays with the handle to avoid having to look at the man sitting so close to him. The silence lasts a couple more moments until Steve looks down at the counter and sighs.

“I thought you quit smoking." He says, casually. Bucky moves his eyes to where Steve’s sitting and sees the pack of cigarettes he’s left there earlier, next to his phone. He swallows hard.

“Uh… yeah." He says, hand rubbing the back of his neck, like he’s some teenage kid caught stealing from his dad’s supply. “I, uh. I stopped because you didn’t…" He looks for words but they won’t really come. "asthma and all." He decides. "It’s been a couple months since I started smoking again.”

“Right."

Steve assents succinctly before going back to his coffee. Bucky does the same. They’re in silence again, at least until Bucky finishes his cup and starts preparing another one. Steve’s taking his time with his, though, takes some good minutes to get to half of it.

“You hungry?" Bucky asks, mindlessly, bringing his mug to his lips, hoping Steve will say yes so he has something else to do.

“I’m fine." Steve’s still dangling his feet, slowly now, voice sounding quiet and smooth. “Thanks." He offers a tiny smile. Bucky nods and goes back, once again, to drinking his coffee and staring at Steve from the corner of his eye. And he’s pretty sure Steve notices, knows he’s being closely observed, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe because it’s Bucky, maybe because he can’t bring himself to care too much about it anyway. Maybe both. So he just watches Steve, for as long as Steve allows himself to be watched, until Steve’s drunk all of his coffee. He goes to get up from the counter, to set his mug on the sink, but Bucky stops him with a touch on his knee and does it for him, but not before asking:

“Want some more?" To which Steve shakes his head, responds with a soft:

“‘M good." Steve sets the back of his head against the door of one of Bucky’s cupboards, eyes on him, now. Bucky can’t stop his eyes from falling to Steve’s lips, still pink and plump despite the cut, probably tasting of coffee and milk and sugar, probably warm and sweet and _soft_. He stops himself from thinking any further about it. And he doesn’t even bother to spend time rationalizing it, this thing between them that feels like fire cracking. He just washes their mugs, thoroughly and methodically, before drying them and putting them back where they belong. He’s good at occupying himself, at keeping himself busy to avoid thinking too much.

Once he’s done, though, there’s nowhere else he can run. Steve’s still there - in his apartment, his kitchen, his counter, his mind. So Bucky just clears his throat and goes to stand next to Steve.

“How’s your face?" He asks, after a couple of beats, gestures towards the bruise. Steve shrugs.

“Hurts a little bit, but it feels better. Thanks for the ice.”

“Yeah." Bucky nods. “No problem. Anything else you want me to take a look at?" Steve smiles at that, wide and playful.

“Anything you _didn’t_ take a look at?" Steve retorts and, yeah, Bucky feels dumb for even asking. So he huffs out a laugh, smiles just as wide as Steve.

“Yeah, right." He says, admitting defeat like he often did, back when Steve was around. “But you could’ve gotten into trouble when I wasn’t looking." Steve raises an eyebrow, a smile still tugging at his lips.

“Not a lot of people to get in trouble with around here, Buck.”

“That never stopped you. You’d get into a brawl with a showerhead, for all I know." Steve laughs at that. Not for long, not too loud, but he laughs that open laugh of his, big and deep and fucking musical to Bucky’s ears. And Bucky wants to chase that sound. He would and he had, too many times before. It always landed him somewhere he’d rather not to be. He bites his lips, and his voice comes out a little quieter, a little bit more apprehensive. "But you do feel okay? No pain or anything?" Steve’s smile softens, but doesn’t leave his face.

"Always looking after me, aren’t you, Buck?” He looks straight into Bucky’s eyes, it almost raises goosebumps on his skin. Steve sees through him. Always had, but Bucky feels naked. Stolen of the privacy of his own mind, his own body. But he doesn’t mind, not really. Because it’s rarely any different, with Steve.

"Yeah." He sighs. "Who will, if I don’t?" He immediately regrets saying it, before Steve even has time to roll his eyes and sigh deeply.

"Me." He responds, voice already sounding tight. "I’ll take care of myself." And Bucky thinks he should tense up, maybe try to lighten the conversation a little bit, but he doesn’t. He just lets his eyes fall to the bruise on Steve’s cheek, much lighter now, but still there, still marking him up. It makes Bucky sick, but it mostly makes him exhausted. Steve must notice the way he’s staring at it, because he turns away, almost like he’s trying to hide the fact that his skin bruises. Bucky takes a deep breath.

"Who did this to you?" He tries to sound stern, but it comes out as a plea. Steve shrugs.

"No one." Bucky can’t help but scoff at that. Steve glares at him from where he’s sitting, eyebrow raised and mouth twisting downwards. Bucky stares right back.

"What?" He shifts, raises his arms in a silent question. "I’m not your _mom_ , Steve. You’re not gonna get grounded. I just wanna know." And Steve swallows hard, looks at Bucky like he’s really thinking about it. Then he sighs, runs his fingers through his hair.

"I don’t know.” He ends up saying, and Bucky furrows his eyebrows.

"You, _what_?”

"I, _fuck_." Steve looks away and buries his face in his hands, looks lost for a moment. He sighs and sets his head against the cupboard "I don’t know who the guy was. I couldn’t… I couldn’t really see his face.” Bucky clenches his jaw at that, just a little bit, feels his heart skip a beat and his stomach turn.

"Did he…" Some stupid shit runs through his mind. "what happened?" Is what he settles for, trying to get his voice to sound steady. It’s the only thing he can say, the only question he could possibly ask that won’t sound pathetic to his ears. Steve slumps his shoulders and shakes his head.

"You don’t wanna know." He says, and it does nothing to make Bucky feel at ease.

"I really do, Steve." And Steve just huffs. Not angry or mean or annoyed. Just tired. Drained. Like too much has been demanded of him and he’s cracking under the pressure. He remains quiet for a couple of moments, his eyes refusing to meet Bucky’s. He just looks down, bouncing his leg up and down softly, visibly attempting to fight the exhaustion he must know is tainting his face. Bucky feels his stomach turn at that. " _Steve_." He presses, _begs_ , sets one of his hands on top of Steve’s knee and tightens his grip, to remind Steve that he’s still there, still listening, still wanting to know, but removes his hand as soon as he realizes what he’s done. Steve sighs, again.

"I had it coming." He admits, says it like he’s been caught in a lie, and Bucky’s genuinely surprised at that. He opens his mouth to question it, ready to remind Steve that not once had he gotten into a fight for a reason he didn’t deem worthy, not once had he apologized for the dumb shit he did. But Steve stops him before he can even properly word his thoughts. "I, he was huge. And I don’t even remember what we were fighting about, some stupid traffic shit, but it wasn’t…" He swallows hard and rolls his eyes at himself. "I was being a dick about it. He touched my arm and I just… I punched him. And I guess you can… you can figure out the rest." He finishes, breathes out a humorless laugh and crosses his arms around his middle. Bucky just stares, mouth agape.

"You’re a fucking idiot." It comes out of his mouth almost reflexively, after a couple of seconds, like a muscle spasm. He expects Steve to make an indignant sound, raise one of his arched eyebrows. Bucky waits for the moment in which Steve will say something back, something clever and biting, tell him to shut the fuck up or scoff at him. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the sound that comes out of Steve’s mouth, hearty and big and warm. Steve laughs at it, smiling big and beautiful. And Bucky raises an eyebrow, but feels himself melt a little bit.

"Yeah." He says, still grinning. "I think I am." He settles for, and his smile softens. Bucky doesn’t really know how to respond to that properly. He feels mostly concerned, but happy that Steve isn’t on edge. Happy that they can just kind of talk about Steve getting beaten up and being an idiot, like they’d talk about what they did over the weekend. He’s happy that he can have this, happy that Steve’s letting him.

"I just… I don’t understand why you did it." He tries to continue the conversation, after they stay in silence for what feels like too long. "Why did you punch the guy?" He asks, but it feels more like an attempt. Steve bites his bottom lip at that, plays with the drawstrings of his sweatpants mindlessly, like he’s not even fully aware of what he’s doing.

"I don’t know, either." He says, twisting one of the strings on his fingers, but Bucky can see right through his bullshit. And Steve can always see right through Bucky, so he must know Bucky thinks it’s bullshit. But he just rolls his eyes and looks away for a second. “Are you gonna ask me if everything’s okay at home?" He jokes, giving up on playing with his sweatpants, and Bucky chuckles lightly. "Refer me to the counselor?”

"Shut up." Bucky says in a laugh. "Unless…" He tries to adopt a more serious tone "things _aren’t_ okay at home. In which case, you can come by my office." And though he’s grateful for the way Steve huffs out a laugh, he’s only half-joking. He waits for Steve to say something, anything, but he just rolls his eyes playfully and sighs, lips curled up in a tiny smile. Bucky sighs as well and allows a couple of moments to go by before he tries to talk again. "How’s your mom?" When he says it, his expression is serious and soft and his tone is quiet, like he’s asking Steve to tell him a secret. And he might as well be. Steve’s face falls a little, and he doesn’t even bother disguising it, this time. He swallows hard and dry, breathes deeply and clicks his tongue. That alone makes Bucky want to regret even mentioning it, but he doesn’t.

"She’s… holding on, I guess." Steve shrugs. "She’s changed a lot, since you last saw her." Bucky nods, an attempt to get Steve to talk about it for more than a couple seconds. "She’s bald now, and she hates it." He smiles. "But she pulls it off. She’s still my mom, you know?" Bucky smiles back at him, because he does know, and he likes knowing. Steve stays quiet, but not for long. Something flickers in his eyes, and he shifts, shoulders slouched and expression hurt. "She went to a nursing home." And Bucky’s eyes widen.

"Oh." Steve huffs at that, like it’s exactly what he was expecting Bucky to say.

"She’s not _dying_." He explains, in a harsh tone, like the idea of his mother dying is somehow offensive to him. "She chose to go. I don’t…" He bites his lips. "I don’t have time. She needs a lot of help and I don’t have time." There’s silence for some time, until Steve continues. "She was staying with Carol. You know that, right?" Bucky assents, keeps his expression neutral. "And then Carol moved in with her girlfriend. And they didn’t have a lot of space and, I, _my mom_ decided it’d be best for everyone, if she stayed at a nursing home and…" He interrupts himself, looks down. Bucky notes, to himself, that there’s shame in Steve’s expression. "I didn’t stop her.” It almost comes out as a whisper. “Because I don’t… I’m too busy.” He sighs, finally, and doesn’t say anything else. And Bucky just… nods. He feels like he should reach out, touch Steve, let him know he’s _there_. But he just nods.

He wants to say something, wants to tell Steve that there’s a solution to everything from his crazy fucking work schedule to his mom to everything else. But he doesn’t. Because he has no idea what that solution would even look like.

Instead, he crosses his arms around his middle and asks the question he’s been wanting to ask since Steve came through his door.

"Why are you here?" And he tries not to sound too guilty about wanting more answers. Steve just shrugs.

"I was in the area." He flashes a humorless smile. "Thought I’d come by and fuck my ex.” 

But then he’s serious again. Bucky stares at him. Steve notices it, it’d be hard not to, so he huffs for what must be the millionth time this evening and shifts in his place, bringing one leg to rest on the counter.

"I don’t know." He admits. "I really was in the area, so I just…" He runs his fingers through his hair, dry now, Bucky notices. "I wasn’t thinking straight." And then he chuckles. "Guy knocked my head an’ all." But Bucky can’t bring himself to laugh at that. To laugh with Steve, at him, at his fucked up situation and at the fact that sometimes it’s just too much and Steve always does too much and then he lashes out, punches people.

Fucks exes.

And Bucky doesn’t have the energy in himself to confront that. Doesn’t like feeling the way he does, like that there’s a knot deep in his stomach, twisting and pulling and making him nauseous.

"I can leave, you know?" Steve says, still not quite meeting Bucky’s eyes. It feels like he’s not really there. Like he’s hovering above his body. "Don’t know why you’re letting me stick around for that long." He continues, smiling. "I can go." But Bucky shakes his head.

"I don’t want you to." He says back, and he’s proud of how calm and quiet and _sure_ he sounds. Steve’s eyes shoot up and he stares into Bucky’s eyes. He stays quiet for some time, before opening his mouth to say:

"I _should_ go." Quietly, like he’s trying to convince both Bucky and himself of that.

"You don’t have to." Bucky’s tone is the same. Steve offers him a smile, a sad, pitiful thing that Bucky dislikes way too much.

"I do." He insists, uses the back of his hand to scratch one of his eyes. Bucky shakes his head again.

"You don’t." He retorts inarticulately. He takes a deep breath and only then notices the pounding rhythm of his heart, feeling like it’ll end up cracking one of his ribs from how fast and heavily it’s beating. "It’s late." His hope is that his attempt to rationalize it will work better on Steve than it does on himself. "It’s not safe out there." Steve scoffs, not mean-spirited but mostly disbelieving. Like Bucky’s asking him to be home by nine. "I mean it." He tries, eyes locked on Steve like he could be gone as soon as he blinks. "I… you can stay in my bed. I’ll take the couch." And Steve genuinely laughs at that, like it’s the most ludicrous thing he’s heard all night. Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"I think we’re way past that, Buck." He says, with a mean grin, the one he’d wear when teasing Bucky about some stupid, innocuous shit. Bucky rolls his eyes, but that’s not enough to hide the soft smile tugging at his lips. "You want me to stay?" He asks. And it feels like he’s asking for more than just permission or reassurance. Bucky thinks he’ll break a bone from how tight his chest gets. He nods. Because he always wants Steve to stay. Because he can’t have it, not for long, and because it’s too much all the time and it _wrecks_ him. So instead he says:

"Let’s go to bed.” 

And they do.

¨¨

"Buck?" Steve whispers. He must have noticed Bucky’s awake.

"Yeah?" He whispers back, trying to sound receptive. Steve stays quiet for way too long. Enough for Bucky to doubt if he’s heard it right, and Steve wasn’t just mumbling in his sleep.

"I’m… sorry." He says, after a while. Bucky swallows hard.

"It’s okay." Is his response, even though he doesn’t exactly know what he’s forgiving. He feels Steve move behind him.

"No, I… I should’ve done more. For you." And it feels like his lungs are full of glass shards and dust. "I should’ve worked harder." Bucky could cry. He doesn’t.

"It’s okay, Steve." But it’s not. "You did your best. I did, too." And Steve sniffs next to him.

"My best wasn’t enough." Bucky feels himself start to shake. It’s never enough for Steve. _Steve_ is never enough for Steve. "I’m sorry I ruined it.”

"You didn’t." Bucky turns to face him. Steve’s eyes lock on his. "You didn’t." He repeats, but Steve doesn’t buy it. Never does, never did. "It just didn’t work out." Steve swallows hard.

"It could’ve." It’s so warm and soft under the covers. Steve’s radiating heat. Bucky nods.

"It could’ve." He smiles. It’s so late. So dark. But he can see the outline of Steve’s face, his crooked nose and his cheekbones and his eyelashes. "It’s not your fault." Bucky reassures. Steve doesn’t respond. Instead, he sighs. And after a couple of moments, he moves closer. Bucky can feel his breath on his face.

"Can I kiss you?” He asks, shy, like it’s their first kiss. All that Bucky can do is breathe out a needy:

"Yes.” Before Steve goes in.

Bucky could cry.

But he doesn’t.

¨¨

The sun’s risen and there’s a bird by his window.

He’s alone in his bed.

He covers his head and goes back to sleep.

¨¨

Bucky’s thumb hovers above the call button for a couple of moments. He doesn’t want to do this.

He presses it anyway and brings his phone to his ear. He takes a deep breath, and then another one. Something heavy settles in his chest, takes up too much space, makes it a little bit harder to breathe and to think. His body feels way too stiff to move. It’s like he’s made of lead. He waits. And waits. And waits.

"James?" Thom’s voice comes through and Bucky’s almost surprised to hear it. There’s that little moment of hesitation again. Bucky pushes it down.

"Yeah." His voice cracks and he grimaces at himself. "Hi." Is what he says, an attempt to recuperate, to keep his tone casual.

"Hi." Thom says back, after some time, trying to do the same. "How… how are you?" And his voice has a hint of relief in it, despite his attempt to remain neutral. Bucky feels a small smile creep up on his face, a sad, tiny little thing. Thom always lets little bits of emotion slip through, Bucky’s always liked that. Right now, it makes him feel like a piece of shit.

"I’m okay.” He only half-lies, in a soft voice, hopes that it sounds reassuring. "And you? "Thom hums quietly.

"I’m fine.” Is his response, though his voice sounds a little tight. Bucky nods, only to himself, and lets his body fall onto his couch, almost wishing he could sink and disappear into it, turn himself into something that isn’t a person, something that isn’t him. He bites his bottom lip.

"So…” Bucky starts, uncertain. "you still coming over, right?" And he almost cringes at his own question, at the fakeness of it, notices the way his shoulders tense up when Thom remains silent. Bucky can almost see him, staring at him in confusion and looking for something that’s not quite there. That’s how it often is, with Thom. He begs with his eyes for things Bucky can’t give. Bucky swallows hard. "We can talk about last night." He adds, voice low. "I don’t… I don’t wanna talk about it on the phone. It wouldn’t be right." He doesn’t want to talk about it at all. But he hopes his tone doesn’t betray that. Thom assents.

"I…" He makes a pause. "I’m finishing up some stuff and...” His voice sounds a little distant, like he’s stuck on a thought he had a while ago. Bucky would like to know what that thought looks like. "I’ll be there in thirty." Is his final answer. Bucky knew he wouldn’t say no. He feels awful for knowing. "That okay with you?" Bucky checks his clock.

"Yeah." He wonders if he should try to sound a little bit more excited about it. “I’ll see you then.”

"See you." And Thom hangs up. Bucky wonders if he should’ve said something like “I love you”. He shivers at the thought.

He sighs deeply and gets up to go take a shower.

¨¨

The first thing Bucky saw, when they met, were Thom’s eyes. They’re what made Bucky look, what made him keep looking.

Bucky could have noticed a lot of things, at first. Thom’s not exactly unremarkable, with his long legs and broad shoulders, deep voice always rumbling in his chest and a smile so wide Bucky could swim in it. But Thom’s eyes are what caught him by surprise; sparked something deep in his gut, something eager and curious, not irresistible but incredibly compelling. It was a good feeling, a feeling Bucky wanted to chase around, take and keep and own. And when he asked for it, asked for more, Thom gave it to him.

There are smudges of hazel in his eyes, little nuggets of gold melting into a warm, earthy brown. They’re big and slanted, have this upwards turn to them that makes them look playful and mischievous, flirtatious almost, framed by tiny eyelashes that match the dark color of his hair. Thom’s eyes look precious, thoughtfully handpicked and placed, like there are fortunes to be found. And what Bucky sees, what he chooses to focus on, is the softness in them. The way they crinkle up when Thom smiles and turn bright when he laughs, the kindness in them, and how gentle they are. They’re full of effortless affection, undemanding when Thom’s close and reassuring when he steps away.

Which is why Bucky hates the way they look, as he goes on to explain why Thom’s calls were left unanswered for a whole night.

He considered the possibility of lying, hiding it from Thom. Wearing hoodies and turtlenecks until the bruises on his skin were gone, talking his way out of sex until he was sure there was no evidence. He thought about it, as ashamed as he is to admit it to himself. But as soon as Thom entered through his door, planted a kiss on his cheek, Bucky knew he couldn’t do it. 

But he does hate the way Thom’s eyes look.

There’s confusion at first, his eyes narrowing as he frowns and furrows his eyebrows. Surprise comes soon after and shock follows suit. And then anger comes, like fire cracking and burning through wood. 

Anger is easy to deal with. Anger punishes and screams and punches, cuts deep into Bucky’s gut, makes him feel shame and guilt and nausea. He doesn’t mind the anger, it’s righteous and fervid and it could kill. And it will last for long, Bucky thinks, it will last for ages, burn holes through his skin and set him ablaze.

But instead, it dissipates in a second. Water rises and brings with it a bright shade of red that takes over Thom’s cheeks. Heartbreak floods to his eyes in a rush, and it’s followed closely by the most humiliating type of disappointment. It’s a feeling of betrayal, of defeat. It drags Bucky down and drowns him, takes the air out of his lungs and replaces it with itself.

"I think we need to take a break." Thom’s voice sounds like a knife tearing through Bucky’s skin. It’s rough and broken, and there’s not a hint of hate to be found in it. Bucky nods slowly, but says nothing, refuses to. "I…" He starts, but interrupts himself, lets out a shaky breath, clenches his fists. "I have to go.”

And he leaves. He shakes as he goes to open the door and slams it on his way out. 

Bucky wants to lie down. Rot away for a couple days. Forget his name. Forget his age. Become unrecognizable to himself. He can’t cry, though. So he doesn’t.

¨¨

He shows up to work on Monday. 

Thom’s there but he doesn’t look him in the eye. They only talk when it’s absolutely necessary.

A month later, Bucky suggests they have lunch. Thom says yes, and they leave together.

They discuss work over plates of salad, dancing around the actual topic. On a normal day, Thom would’ve stolen something from Bucky’s plate, given him a cheeky smile. Bucky would’ve done the same in retaliation, kicked his shins lightly. 

But they keep to themselves. It’s not bad. Just unpleasantly neutral.

When Bucky mentions what happened, Thom hesitates for a second and something rueful flickers in his eyes.

"We should keep things professional." And Bucky agrees. There’s a moment of awkward silence between them, as they stare into their plates, having lost their appetites. Thom sighs. "I don’t think it would’ve worked either way." He says, to break the tension, voice low and quiet. Bucky nods, and hopes his expression doesn’t show how much he thinks that’s bullshit. He says he has something to do before he can head back to the office and leaves.

He lights up a cigarette and takes a walk around the area until his break is over.

They don’t talk much after that.

¨¨

When he tells Becca about what happened, her jaw drops.

"You’re a fucking idiot."

She seems to regret it as soon as it leaves her mouth. Bucky downs another beer.

"Yeah." He says. "I think I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for making it this far! i hope you liked it
> 
> let me know what you guys think, i would love to get some feedback :)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr [@snowylucas](https://spookylucas.tumblr.com/).
> 
> once again, thank you for reading my fic! have a nice day, stay safe


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